


The Reasons Denethor Hates Faramir

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Humor, Multi-Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2007-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-23 13:20:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 9,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3769889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which it will be shown that it is all Faramir's fault. (not to be taken seriously)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reason #1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

_Introduction: The character of Denethor is a great feeding ground for LOTR fanfic writers, because Tolkien wrote very little of his inner life, especially in regards to his dislike of Faramir. In the Appendices all we are told is that Faramir's love for Gandalf and "other matters" did not meet with Denethor's approval. What are these other matters? Faramir's dislike of war? Does he remind Denethor of Finduilas? Does he remind Denethor of Denethor? After thinking very seriously on this matter, I suddenly had an idea: what if Denethor's motives were more simple than people think them? And what if Faramir was not the blameless victim that is so often shown? So here they are, the real reasons that Denethor hates Faramir:_   


* * *

  
The Reasons Why Denethor Hates Faramir  
 _(in which it will be shown that it is all Faramir's fault)  
_  
 **Reason #1**  
  
Denethor wished he were one of the Firstborn as he stood outside the privy in the Citadel, for then his glare might have destroyed that drattedly insolent cat. Dineniel had never been afraid of Denethor, and at the moment was quite upset at him for behaving so angrily anywhere near her dear master.  
  
Then the door opened, and Dineniel ran to rub herself against Faramir's legs as he exited. He smiled down at her, and then looked up to see, first the tapping boot, then the irritated expression, and finally the hard glare of his father.  
  
"Do you have the book?" asked Denethor, and certainly one of his best qualities was his ability to avoid hedging around matters.  
  
"I have _Seryn Thyrin_ , if that is what you mean," said Faramir, surprised, looking down at the thick volume in his hand.  
  
Denethor snatched the object from Faramir, saying snappily: "Of course you know what I mean! Do you realize that I have been waiting for days to find out what happens at the end of this book? First Boromir 'borrowed' it, swearing that he had only one chapter left to read, and now I find that _you_ have snitched it from _him_!"  
  
"I beg your pardon," said Faramir, realization flooding over him as he realized the exact nature of his crime. But his bemused look did not escape Denethor, who only at that moment realized that Faramir saw the picture of his serious and grim father reading Numenorean romance novels in an entirely different light than Denethor had.  
  
Flushing slightly, Denethor granted to Faramir his most haughty sneer, an obvious dare to make fun of his father, and Faramir quickly hid under a mask of humility. Turning swiftly, Denethor departed, holding his treasure close to him. _Hang duty!_ He would finish the book today, ambassadors to meet or no.  


* * *

  
_Author's Notes: Please do not take this seriously. Seryn Thyrin is Sindarin for Secret Lovers. Dineniel is Faramir's cat, one of the daughters of the kitten he got in my story "Happy Yuletide Indeed". Her name is Sindarin for "Silent Daughter"._


	2. Reason #2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it will be shown that it is all Faramir's fault. (not to be taken seriously)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eval is my idea of the Middle-earth equivilant of Egads. Egads is a corruption of Ye Gods, so Eval is a corruption of Ye Valar. 

" _Eval!_ " cried Denethor as he beheld a most terrifying sight. Faramir, heavy book in one hand, dust rag in another, looked up and smiled at him. There were streaks of dust on his face, and though the Steward would have usually commented on them, he was more distracted by the surroundings of his younger son.  
  
"Good afternoon, Adar," said Faramir cheerfully. "I cleaned the Library, as it looked like it had not been touched in years."  
  
Denethor, apparently, had noticed, for his wide eyes scanned the room with growing horror. Gone were the floating dust puffs, the clouds of beige hue that would cause coughing among even the hardiest of visitors, and the dull tones of the furniture were brightened to their original colors. He could swear that out of the corner of his eye he could see sparkles leaping forth from the corners of the bookshelves. There was one last test—Denethor turned to his left and pushed down heavily on the pouffy cushion of an armchair. Alas! the job was complete—Faramir had an annoying habit of being able to finish everything he started—and no cloud of dust jumped up from the chair. The Library was _clean_.  
  
"Adar?" asked Faramir, his brow creasing as he saw his father's odd reaction.  
  
"It is clean," said Denethor in a tone that barely held back his strong emotions.  
  
"Are you not pleased? It always tugged at my heart how everything looked so old and decaying in here, so I thought you would like it to be returned to its former glory."  
  
"That is the point!" said Denethor in a near-squeak. "It is the Library of _Ancient_ Scrolls! It is supposed to look old! It is supposed to be dusty and fragile, to convey that it is a thing of history and antiquity. And now it looks like it has just been built! Faramir, put that dust back, right this instant!"  
  
Faramir looked at his father with merely questioning in his eyes. Denethor flung his hands in the air.  
  
"Oh, do not listen to me, then! What do I care? The damage is done, irrevocable damage. You have heedlessly done away with one of the heritages of Gondor; try not to do it again."  
  
And with a frustrated sigh to release his tension, Denethor glided swiftly out the hall. Not one smidgen of dust attached to the train of his black robe, yet another blow to the traditionalist Steward of Gondor.

* * *

_Author's Notes: Eval is my idea of the Middle-earth equivilant of Egads. Egads is a corruption of Ye Gods, so Eval is a corruption of Ye Valar._


	3. Reason #3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it will be shown that it is all Faramir's fault. (not to be taken seriously)

_Length of day is relative_ , thought Denethor as he made his way wearily to his own chamber. _Days with Finduilas were as lightning flashes, while today was a thunder roll that went on for hours._  
  
His next thought was _Valar! I am thinking of Finduilas again! Now I will cry._  
  
And as he thought, so his actions responded. Curling up in his bed, he reached underneath his pillow to where a small stuffed Mumakil was, a toy from his childhood. One arm entwined around it and squeezed it, while the other was raised towards his mouth so that he might suck on the thumb. Tears flowed freely from his eyes and wet the soft fabric of the Mumakil, whom he had named Squooshy.  
  
The room was utterly dark, and for a good five minutes Denethor cried. Then a sudden light stabbed his eyes, red and blotchy from tears. The door was opened, and Faramir burst in, saying before thinking: "Adar, there is an urgent—"  
  
He had only a brief moment to see his father sucking his thumb and hugging Squooshy, and an even briefer moment for his jaw to drop, before said stuffed toy was flung at his face by a ferocious son of Ecthelion.  
  
"Out! Out at once!" screamed Denethor, and Faramir did not pause to question.  
  
Oh, but the deed had been done, and Denethor would never forget it. His mind was filled with hot murderous thoughts as he retrieved Squooshy, stroking his soft fur and apologizing for so misusing him.


	4. Reason #4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it will be shown that it is all Faramir's fault. (not to be taken seriously)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the stories that Faramir/Denethor mention are Tolkien's, and may be found in the Silmarillion, the Appendices to LOTR, or the History of Middle-earth series.

Faramir coughed pathetically, drawing Denethor's sympathy, but also a slight disgust. He could not remember the last time he was ill, or Boromir, but Faramir seemed to make up for all of them combined, and had every illness possible by age nine. This time, the healer said, it was just a common cold. _Common, faugh!_  
  
"I'm glad you came to visit me, Ada," rasped Faramir with a toothless smile.  
  
"Yes, well, I am your father, and was told that sitting by sickbeds is what parents do," said Denethor. "What should I do?"  
  
"I would like a story," said Faramir, snuggling down under the covers and looking expectantly at his father.  
  
"Ah yes," said Denethor. "There is a story that you would like, about your namesake, the son of King Ondoher—"  
  
"I know that one, Ada," interrupted Faramir.  
  
"Oh," said Denethor. "Well, how about your distant relation, Isildur, and the time when he rescued the White Tree—"  
  
"I know that one, too," said Faramir with a slightly sleepy accent.  
  
"Earendil, then, and how he took the Silmaril into heaven—"  
  
"I have heard that one millions of times," yawned Faramir.  
  
"Feanor, and the creation of the Silmarils?"  
  
"I know it."  
  
"Arvedui and his false claim on the throne of Gondor?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Queen Beruthiel and her cats?"  
  
Faramir paused, thought, and then said: "Yes, that one too."  
  
"What story have you not heard?" asked Denethor, hitting a pillow in his desperation.  
  
"Can you tell me the story of Finrod and Andreth?"  
  
Denethor blinked at his son. "I do not know that one."  
  
"Oh," said Faramir, and he rolled over on one side. "Well, then there is no story that I want to hear."  
  
"But I must! It is my duty as a father!" protested Denethor. "Surely there is another story you wish to hear!"  
  
"No," sighed Faramir, and shut his eyes. "I want to sleep."  
  
"It is not fair," muttered Denethor. Faramir did not seem to hear, and his breathing was grown steady and slow. Giving the pillow another good hit, Denethor left the sickroom to find consolation for his hurt pride in a glass of warm milk.

* * *

_  
Author's Notes: All the stories that Faramir/Denethor mention are Tolkien's, and may be found in the Silmarillion, the Appendices to LOTR, or the History of Middle-earth series._


	5. Reason #5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it will be shown that it is all Faramir's fault. (not to be taken seriously)

  
"Mithrandir, these are my two sons, Boromir and Faramir," said Denethor, grudgingly performing the necessary introduction.  
  
"Good morning, young ones," said Gandalf in his most charming voice.  
  
"I am not young," said Boromir with a sniff.  
  
"Good morning," said Faramir, lapping up the wizard's attention with glee. "Why are you here?"  
  
Denethor rolled his eyes. Faramir was always asking questions.  
  
"I came to see your Ada," answered Gandalf, in that annoyingly enchanting tone that won everyone to his side. Everyone but Denethor. He was the only one smart enough to see through it.  
  
"You came awfully early," said Faramir. "Did you come before Ada was awake?"  
  
"No," responded Gandalf.  
  
"Good," said Faramir, "because he sleeps with nothing to wear, and I don't think you would want to see that."  
  
"Faramir!" snapped Denethor, willing the blood not to rush into his face.  
  
Boromir gasped and put a hand over Faramir's mouth. Gandalf merely chuckled.  
  
"Have a good morning, Lord Steward," he said, and departed.  
  
Denethor looked first at his young son (completely missing the contrite look), then to Gandalf (who was most amused as he left), and then put his noble head in his hands with a groan.  
  



	6. Reason #6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it will be shown that it is all Faramir's fault. (not to be taken seriously)

Denethor frowned. His opponent had taken his bishop with a knight, and there was no immediate way for Denethor to counter it. _Except, maybe..._  
  
"Can I play, Ada?"  
  
Denethor jumped. "Faramir! Do not sneak up like that!"  
  
"But I am going to be a Ranger," responded Faramir. "I _have_ to be quiet. Can I play?"  
  
"Can you not see that I am already playing a game?" answered Denethor in a strained but patient tone.  
  
"No, you're not," said Faramir. "There is no one else."  
  
"I am playing with myself," explained Denethor in the tone one uses with those whose thought patterns are slow and uncertain.  
  
"Why? Can't I be the other player?"  
  
Denethor decided to yield to the ever-curious and bothersome Faramir, just this once. Oh, what did it matter! While he was being this generous, he might as well let the boy win.  
  
"Very well."  
  
Faramir sat down with glee. Denethor countered his opponent's former move. Faramir looked at the pieces with a thoughtful stare, then moved the bishop-slaughtering knight to a remarkably dangerous position by Denethor's queen.  
  
Denethor countered with a very ignorant move, hoping that Faramir would just win and be happy, so that Denethor could get back to a real game. Faramir was remarkably quick on the uptake, and in four moves said: "Checkmate, Ada."  
  
Denethor casually flicked his king over, and said in a dry tone: "You have won. Amazing. Why do you not play something else now?"  
  
"I won!" shouted Faramir joyously. "I won, I won, I won! I beat the chess champion! Wait till Bori hears!"  
  
 _Bad idea,_ thought Denethor too late. _If I am not wrong, dratted Faramir will have this all over the city by nightfall, and I shall never live it down._ A man of high Numenorean descent, Denethor was _never_ wrong...  



	7. Reason #7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it will be shown that it is all Faramir's fault. (not to be taken seriously)

"Goodnight boys," said Denethor, yawning. "Remember to get all the toys of the floor before you go to sleep to make it safe for any that come in your room."  
  
"Yes, Ada," said Boromir and Faramir wearily, and they tripped off to bed.  
  
Denethor flopped onto his own bed with a groan. Children! They talked too much, and it was deadly wearying. His eyelids wavered, and then fell, as his mind plunged into exhausted slumber. It was only a moment in his mind, though perhaps ten minutes in the world, before nearby crying awoke him.  
  
_Faramir, of course. Probably a nightmare._  
  
With a sigh, Denethor wrenched himself from the soft blankets that were just warming up, threw on a robe, and plodded down the hallway to his youngest's bedchamber. It was dark, but he brought no candle, for he knew the halls by heart. With a great yawn, he opened the door. Faramir was whimpering in his bed, and Denethor began walking towards him.  
  
"Faramir? Are you having a— _whoa_!"  
  
And with a yelp, Denethor hopped on one foot, a small pointy wooden toy having skewered his toe. "Faramir, I told you to— _agh_!" He tripped over a large stuffed toy, and tumbled forward, barely keeping on his feet.  
  
"Faramir!" Denethor stubbed his toe on a wooden box, and as he stepped back in agony, his other foot found a wooden cart. The cart had wheels. The wheels rolled. Denethor fell with a crash and lay unmoving.  
  
"Ada?" came a shaky voice from the bed, and little footsteps came towards where Denethor lay.  
  
_I will die at the hands of my son_ , thought Denethor. _Or rather, at the toys of my son._  
  
"Ada, are you all right?"  
  
Denethor opened his eyes to see Faramir holding a candle that he had hastily lit.  
  
"I had a nightmare," he said.  
  
Denethor groaned, shut his eyes, and vowed that Faramir would never receive a toy again, not as long as he lived.


	8. Reason #8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it will be shown that it is all Faramir's fault. (not to be taken seriously)

  
"Your son," said Finduilas proudly, "is he not beautiful?"  
  
As far as Denethor was concerned, putting babes in frilly neckcloths and nappies was the worst waste of gold coin in the history of Arda, but he nodded and smiled anyway. Faramir, sucking on his thumb and drooling massively, put up his other hand and waved at his father.  
  
"Aww, is that not sweet?" cooed Finduilas. "Wave back at him, Denny, do!"  
  
Denethor waved, a silly smile pasted on his face. Faramir giggled, and put up both arms to be held. The Steward could not deny that he felt warmth creeping into his heart at such a show of love. He scooped up his son and, holding him in one hand, tickled his plump little tummy with the other.  
  
Faramir looked at the hand first with curiosity, and then suddenly with a predatorial look that should have warned his father. But no one had told Denethor that babies could be dangerous. He merely smiled at his son as Faramir grabbed his fingers and stuffed them into his mouth.  
  
"Aiya!" cried Denethor in a purely agonized voice, and he nearly dropped Faramir, who giggled at the bulging eyes of his injured father.  
  
Denethor wrenched his finger from Faramir's mouth and examined the damage: two deep marks, though not deep enough to bleed, were the evidence of Faramir's brand new teeth.  
  
"Bad Faramir!" gasped out Denethor sternly. "No biting!"  
  
Those big blue eyes welled up with tears, and Faramir began to wail mournfully.  
  
"Denny!" cried Finduilas protectively, reaching out and snatching her weeping child from his arms. "You should not be so harsh! He is but a babe!"  
  
"I was not harsh, I was just," protested Denethor, feeling betrayed by his wife and by the nearly smug look he saw in Faramir's eyes as he used his adorable face to get comfort. Was there remorse for having hurt his father? Certainly not. Denethor added bitterly: "My finger was nearly bitten off!"  
  
Finduilas gave him an icy glance, and then began to coo to Faramir: "It is all right, sweety pumpkin, Ada was only being mad, it will not happen again."  
  
 _No, it will not_ , thought Denethor, _because I will not put my fingers in his mouth again._  
  
Finduilas began to shoo him, and Denethor put out his hand to pat Faramir's peach-fuzzed head as farewell. Faramir looked up at his father's face again, and Denethor thought there might be hope, but then the same hungry light came into those innocent blue eyes, and Denethor retracted his hand faster than from a hot stove. Faramir looked disappointed, and Denethor gave him a smug look of his own.  
  
 _Oh no, my clever son_ , he thought. _I shall not be eaten again._  
  



	9. Reason #9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it will be shown that it is all Faramir's fault. (not to be taken seriously)

Denethor rubbed his tired eyes with a hand that was sore from holding the pen so long. It was late in the night, and yet there would be no rest for the Steward of the House of Anarion for hours yet, for the very next day was an important meeting with the Council. _And yet_ , he thought, _I really should go to bed now, for I must be in my best health tomorrow, not exhausted_. He glanced at the remaining papers, and decided that it would be better to get up early and deal with them then, rather than stay up even later now. He had just laid down his pen for the last time that night when he heard a sniffle behind him.  
  
As there had been no sound in that room other than the pen for the last four hours, Denethor leapt one whole foot from his chair in surprise, wheeling around so that he almost knocked it over.  
  
There was Faramir, cuteness in essence, looking up with a lonely expression at his surprised father. His nose was red, and he sniffed sadly.  
  
Denethor, hand over his heart, attempting to ascertain if it was beating after its shock, said nothing. When he could feel the thumping again, he let out his breath, saying: "Do you want something, Faramir?"  
  
"I want you," said Faramir with a quiver of his lower lip, and he climbed up into his father's lap and laid his head on his chest. Denethor let out another breath in a half sigh. Alas that Faramir was so adorable, and so blasted aware of the fact!  
  
"I am going to bed now, Faramir," reminded Denethor, but his hand was rubbing Faramir's back in a comforting manner despite everything. "What do you need?"  
  
"I don't know," said Faramir. "I am sick."  
  
"Sick!" exclaimed Denethor in horror. "Not again!" He should not have been surprised, but this was not the night for comforting children with illnesses! What if Denethor should catch a cold on the only day of the year when he met with all the nobles of Gondor at once? Horrors of horrors, what if his nose was red and weeping as well?  
  
"I am very sorry that you are ill, but if you need company, you must seek out Boromir," said Denethor, standing and trying to remove Faramir from his lap without seeming blunt.  
  
Faramir sighed, and let go. Denethor set him down on the floor and then, as he stood up, there was a loud explosion and he jumped again. Faramir had sneezed. Both of them just looked at each other for a moment, and then Denethor, with slow and deliberate motion, drew forth a great pocket kerchief and wiped his face.  
  
"To bed with you, Faramir," he said in a misleadingly calm voice.  
  
"Yes, Ada," said Faramir, not realizing the extent of his trespass, but definitely understanding that sneezing full in the face of the Steward of Gondor was never a good idea. Despite his sniffling, he loped quickly off to his brother's room to find more suitable comfort.  
  
Denethor, not for the first time that day, rubbed his hands down his face, starting at the hairline and dragging down to the chin. And then, he made his way to his own chambers.  
  
 _Perhaps it will be nothing,_ said the tiny figure of an optimist in Denethor's brain. _Perhaps it was just a sneeze._ But then the overpowering pessimist crept from the shadows, a great hulking figure, and gave one snort that sent the timid optimist back to his corner. _Just a cold?_  
  
And then, Denethor sneezed. His thoughts were clear: _Oh. Dear. Valar. Please. No._  
  
But the Valar heard nothing that night...


	10. Reason #10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it will be shown that it is all Faramir's fault. (not to be taken seriously)

His weeping having finally subsided, Denethor wiped his face with a large kerchief. Then, standing tall again, he turned around, intending to nobly send from his side all those who were mourning with him. But, to his surprise, he saw that not one person was around him trying to offer comfort. Not one.  
  
And next, he saw the reason why. Just a few yards away, the remaining crowd of women and old men were gathered around—his son. Faramir, small-nosed and large-eyed, was silently trembling and dripping tears in the midst of them. Certainly, Denethor had to admit, he was much cuter than his father, which would explain all his comforters. _But—but—it is not right!_  
  
He marched over to them, hurt pride evident on his red and blotchy face. "What is going on here?"  
  
"We are just making sure the poor motherless little boy feels loved," said one of the ladies. Faramir looked up at his father mournfully.  
  
"But why are you ignoring me?" asked Denethor, his grief making him less than careful about what he said. "She was my wife! Mine! Not his! My Finduilas is gone, and no one cares for me! Why am I unloved? I need to be loved too!"  
  
"She was my mother," said Faramir in a shaky voice. The crowd around him shifted their shocked gaze from Denethor, and said simultaneously: "Aww, poor lad."  
  
Denethor's lower lip quivered, and he turned away. Unloved. He was unloved. No one would give _him_ hugs. No one would give _him_ sweets. Oh no, he was superceded by his own son. It was just not fair.  
  
"Ada? Are you all right?" There was Boromir, the only one who was not hovering around adorable little Faramir.  
  
"No," said Denethor sadly, casting a glance over at the crowd.  
  
"It'll be all right soon, I'm sure," said Boromir, seeing the glance, and not letting out that he had been in that crowd moments before. "Come on, Ada, let's find some lunch."  
  
"Of course, my son," said Denethor, smiling gratefully.  
  



	11. Reason #11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it will be shown that it is all Faramir's fault. (not to be taken seriously)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morsaw is Sindarin for "Black Juice". Can you guess what drink it is supposed to be? Gilaras' is Sindarin for "Star-Deer's", hopefully an accurate translation of Starbucks. Now can you guess? I did try to stay semi-canonical in having it an import...but as this is not a serious tale, it should not matter too much anyway. 

Denethor awoke, not because he was rested, but because the dawn bell rang. Sitting up groggily, he realized that he felt half dead. _Nothing new, I suppose_ , he thought. Well, he would get over this in the usual way. Managing to throw on a robe and run a comb through his hair, he stumbled down the stairs, yawning so hard that his jaw ached.  
  
Down he went, on the well trod path towards the kitchen. Ah yes, everything was normal, and the scent of freshly brewed _morsaw_ already began to rouse his senses. He would get his daily cup, black and strong, and he would function. It had been a good day for Gondor when the drink had been imported from Harad.  
  
But as his bleary eyes took in his nearby surroundings, he saw that the kitchen was not empty. In fact, over where the pot of _morsaw_ usually was, stood Faramir, mug in hand.  
  
"What are you doing here?" asked Denethor sleepily, as he made his way over there. "You are never up this early."  
  
"Just having a cup of _morsaw_ ," said Faramir cheerfully. "I came down early today, and it was as if someone had read my mind."  
  
Tired as Denethor's brain was, it took him a full minute to understand exactly what was going on. The pot was empty. It was empty. It was _empty_. How could it be empty? Faramir had a mug. He had a mug. He had a _mug_.  
  
"You have _morsaw_?" asked Denethor.  
  
"Of course," said Faramir. "That is just what I told you."  
  
"Give it to me at once!" cried Denethor. "That is my personal _morsaw_! You should not have stolen it!"  
  
Faramir quickly handed him the cup, mumbling: "Sorry, Ada, I did not know."  
  
But just as Denethor expected relief, the first sip horrified his mouth. Staring at the cup, he asked Faramir: "What is this?"  
  
" _Morsaw_ ," said Faramir slowly.  
  
"No, it is not! _Morsaw_ is black," said Denethor deliberately.  
  
"Oh, well, I put cream and sugar in mine, of course."  
  
"Take it back! Take it back!" said disgusted Denethor, handing him the mug. "Where is my _morsaw_ , black and strong?"

Faramir's face was a blank. Denethor stumbled out to the Citadel, crying desperately: " _Morsaw_! I need _morsaw_! Someone, please, help me!"  
  
A woman with a basket stopped and put a kind hand on his arm. "My lord? You need _morsaw_? There is a shop, just two doors down, that will give you what you wish."  
  
Denethor looked pleadingly into her eyes. "Black _morsaw_? Strong _morsaw_?"  
  
"Of course," she said kindly. "It is called Gilaras'."  
  
"Thank you," breathed out Denethor in relief, and followed her directions. It was not long before his mind was working, and comfort flowed through his veins. He had not forgotten Faramir, but for the moment, all that mattered was his delicious black brew.

* * *

_Author's Notes: Morsaw is Sindarin for "Black Juice". Can you guess what drink it is supposed to be? Gilaras' is Sindarin for "Star-Deer's", hopefully an accurate translation of Starbucks. Now can you guess? I did try to stay semi-canonical in having it an import...but as this is not a serious tale, it should not matter too much anyway._  



	12. Reason #12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it will be shown that it is all Faramir's fault. (not to be taken seriously)

"Ada, Ada!"  
  
Boromir's voice outside his room was disappointingly unignorable. Denethor rolled over moodily. The cold that Faramir had given him brought, along with a runny nose, a stabbing headache and a sore throat that made him sound almost evil.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Fara's having a nightmare!"  
  
Throwing on a robe, Denethor got up. _That boy has far too many nightmares; it must be unnatural._ He opened the door and started down the hall, Boromir following close behind.  
  
"Is there anything that might prompt this one?" asked Denethor hoarsely.  
  
"Well, I did tell him a monster story before bed," confessed Boromir. "But he's eight! He shouldn't get scared!"  
  
Denethor sighed, which, of course, irritated his throat, throwing him into a spasm of coughs. "Drat that Faramir," he muttered scratchily.  
  
He had arrived at Faramir's door, and knocked. "Faramir?" No answer. He opened the door, and called in: "Faramir?"  
  
Suddenly a small figure popped out from behind the door and threw a magnificent punch into Denethor's gut, doubling him over. A strike to the back and Denethor crumpled to the floor, coughing and crying: "Faramir!"  
  
"Ada?" Faramir's voice sounded shaken. "Is that you?"  
  
"Of course it is me!" croaked Denethor, pain fogging his vision.  
  
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hit _you_. You sounded like a monster."  
  
"Of course," said Denethor sarcastically with a growl. "I should have known that was how you thought of me. Get back in bed now, and do not punch anyone again unless you are sure they are a monster. And no more nightmares, understand?"  
  
Faramir nodded as he climbed back into bed. Denethor stood up, rubbed his stomach with a grimace, and sighed heavily. Another spasm of coughs overtook him, and Boromir heard them get fainter and fainter as his father stumbled wearily down the hallway to his own chamber.


	13. Reason #13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it will be shown that it is all Faramir's fault. (not to be taken seriously)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Great thanks to Mirwen Sunrider for inspiring this chapter! 

"Good morning, Ada!" said Faramir cheerfully, waltzing into Denethor's office with a hum.  
  
"Good morning," said Denethor without looking up. Nothing unusual here; it was their little repeated skit. Every morning, Faramir would come in and say good morning, Denethor would respond once and then ignore, and Faramir would leave. But today Faramir was ad-libbing. Denethor liked order, not randomness.  
  
"What are you doing?" Faramir asked, leaning over the desk to stare at the papers.  
  
"What do I do every morning?" responded Denethor.  
  
"Papers. You have to do a lot of papers when you are Steward, right?"  
  
"Yes." _Keep it short, and he will grow bored soon._  
  
Faramir tilted his head, eyeing the papers with a look only slightly glazed. _Any moment now..._ thought Denethor. Then a little hand reached out, and took a paper in hand.  
  
"What does this say, Ada?"  
  
Sighing, Denethor took the paper back. "Faramir, please, Ada needs to work. You need to go. Now."  
  
"But Boromir is not awake, and I am bored," His fat lower lip looked even fatter as he stuck it out and wrinkled his nose in a perfect pout. "Can I have a cookie?"  
  
Denethor did not have a cookie, but as Faramir seemed to be providing a way out, he descended to bribery with alacrity. Digging deep in his robe pocket, he found a sweet that was only slightly dusty, and thrust it at Faramir. "Now, you must go."  
  
Faramir grinned and popped it in his mouth, saying around it: "Tanks da!" Then he was gone.  
  
Denethor's pen was soon scratching again, a nearly never-ending sound that would have driven an ordinary man mad. But whatever anyone could say about him, Denethor was proud never to be named ordinary. In a way, this was his favorite sound, and to him it meant more than just writing: the sound of a pen was the sound of organization, the sound of accounts being balanced, of trade being maintained, the sound of...perfection. But he could only bathe in it for a moment—Faramir really was being odd today.  
  
"Ada? Boromir is still asleep, and my sweet is gone."  
  
Denethor closed his eyes and turned in his chair. When he opened them again, Faramir was looking expectantly up at him. "Find something to do by yourself, then," he said simply.  
  
For a moment, Faramir's fist went under his chin, and his head tilted upward and to the left, as he gave it thought. Then: "I know! I will help you!"  
  
Once again, the hand shot out, and a whole pile of papers was soon in his hand.  
  
"No, Faramir, you cannot," said Denethor, and reached for his papers. There was a shocking tearing sound as he took them, and Faramir looked up in surprise, for he had not been holding them tightly.  
  
"My hands are a little sticky," admitted the boy, and looked at them.  
  
"A little! You—you have the latest dispatch from Harad on your hands!" exclaimed Denethor. His own hands shot out, and he took Faramir's in them, dismay open on his face as he saw the firm grip the shreds of paper had on Faramir's candy-saturated fingers.  
  
"I can give it back," said Faramir conciliatorily after a moment, and his nose crinkled as he tried to peel the largest piece off. There was another rip, and Denethor winced.  
  
"No, stop, please!" he begged. "It is ruined. Please go!" And Faramir did.  
  
It was beyond comprehension; the fates must be after him with a vengeance. There was only one thing to do when alone again. Denethor's head dipped forward and hit his desk with a thud. He would best the fates eventually, fear not, but right now he could spare a moment to indulge in a bit of self-pity.

* * *

_Author's Notes: Great thanks to Mirwen Sunrider for inspiring this chapter!_  



	14. Reason #14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it will be shown that it is all Faramir's fault. (not to be taken seriously)

"Faramir, stop fidgeting." Faramir obeyed, but only for a moment.  
  
"Faramir, what did I tell you?" Faramir looked sheepishly up, and paused, but soon his stride was springy again.  
  
"Faramir, those of the House of Hurin do not bounce when they walk," warned Denethor again. He had no need to look at Faramir; he could _feel_ that he was bouncing.  
  
"But Ada, I am getting a horse today!" said Faramir excitedly.  
  
"Yes, but you are thirteen years old, and should have enough self control to keep still until we get to the stables."  
  
" _Then_ can I bounce?"  
  
Denethor did not answer; such purposely smart remarks did not deserve an answer. Soon they were at the stables, where the gifts from Rohan had newly arrived.

"They are magnificent!" said Faramir in awe. "Do I really get one?" Not waiting for an answer, he walked up and down the row of stalls, taking in the beauty of each one with careful consideration. Some nickered to him, others brushed his head with their noses, but he only patted their noses, thinking carefully about his choice.  
  
Denethor watched him, curious as to his final choice. The Steward himself had looked them over when they had first arrived, and was pleased by them all—well, perhaps not all. King Theoden had sent a very fine stallion as a personal gift to Denethor, and at first Denethor had been gratified, but then—  
  
"Faramir," he called out as his son neared the last stall. "That horse is half mad, do not go near it!"  
  
"Half mad?" called back Faramir. "He does not look it, I am sure."  
  
"Faramir, I nearly became like Beren after offering him a carrot! Leave him alone!"  
  
To Denethor's great distress, Faramir was not listening, and was actually opening the door to Mearh's stall. He began moving quickly forward, cursing Theoden's idea of a joke and his own son's stubbornness. "Faramir!" he called worriedly. "Get out of that stall!"  
  
"Why, Ada?"  
  
Denethor suddenly stopped. Was Faramir's voice actually coming from the back of that horse? "Faramir, get down at once before you are killed!" Denethor did not dare get any closer, but he made it clear that his anger was high.  
  
"Silly Ada, he is not mad or dangerous," said Faramir with a chuckle as he stroked Mearh's neck. Mearh rumbled happily and shook his mane. "He just needed a rider who knew how to handle horses."  
  
"But—you could have been killed!" spluttered Denethor. Mearh did not like the implication of murder, and snorted in Denethor's face, blowing the Steward's hair back into a mess.  
  
"Nonsense," said Faramir and, turning Mearh around with a cluck, rode out of the stable to get a good feel for his new mount.  
  
Denethor could not explain it, but deep down inside he felt that Faramir was mocking him. _No one_ mocked the Steward of Gondor! But then, to deal with Faramir, he would have to come near to Mearh  
  
_Hmm._  
  
On second thought, thirteen year olds were known to be insolent, and the stage would soon pass without Denethor's interference.

* * *

_A/N: Big thanks to lindahoyland for suggesting this chapter. Mearh is Old English/Rohirric for "horse"… very original, no? Denethor's reference to Beren is a nod to the Silmarillion where Beren loses a hand rather famously._


	15. Reason #15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it will be shown that it is all Faramir's fault. (not to be taken seriously)

Faramir stood by Denethor's desk, patiently waiting for his father to acknowledge him. Finally, the greying head lifted slowly and grunted.  
  
Faramir took a deep breath and said: "Ada, can I ask a favor of you?"  
  
Denethor did not say anything, but blinked several times in surprise. _Faramir? Asking for help? What a joyous day is this! Perhaps my loner son is realizing the worth in his elders at last._ "Of course, Faramir, what is it?"  
  
"I need help with the problems that Finion set me," said Faramir, flushing slightly as he held out the paper.  
  
"Finion your tutor?" Denethor received an assenting nod, and began to glow with pride that he could finally fulfill the fatherly act of helping with homework. "Let me see the problem that you have trouble with," he said.  
  
Faramir put the paper on the desk, and leaned over Denethor's shoulder as he read it. "See, Ada, that problem there? I cannot figure out the cosine with the attributes given."  
  
Denethor was frowning, leaning slowly closer into the paper, as if distance was somehow causing his mind not to make the right connections. _Sine? Cosine? Hypotenuse? What was this all supposed to mean?_  
  
Not daring to let Faramir know that he could not come even close to doing the math that his fourteen year old son was doing, Denethor hedged around the point, saying: "I cannot figure it either."  
  
Faramir sighed and took his paper back. "I did not think you would be able to, but Finion told me to try."  
  
Once again, speech was taken from Denethor as his mind quickly worked around what had just happened. Had—had Faramir implied that he was unintelligent? Bristling, Denethor cursed all cosines, whatever in Arda _they_ were, and turned back to his own work. Unfortunately, it was with such vigor that his inkwell spilled.  
  
"To Mandos with sines!" he swore loudly. It sounded good, and he determined that he would find out what it meant if it killed him. And at least there was comfort in that, because he wore only black, the ink spill would not show. In Denethor's time of life, even half-comforts were welcome.  
  



	16. Reason #16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it will be shown that it is all Faramir's fault. (not to be taken seriously)

Denethor frowned and scanned the bedroom. Faramir had better be somewhere in here, or Denethor would be very put out when he found him. But no, the room was quite empty. Grumbling under his breath, Denethor found his firstborn and asked:  
  
"Boromir, do you know where your brother is? I sent him to nap, but he escaped me."  
  
Boromir thought, and then said, "I think he went towards the White Tower."

_Oh dear_ , thought Denethor. Though he prided himself on staying fit even though sixty-two years old, Faramir could not expect thanks when Denethor found him after climbing all 200 steps to the top—and even less if Faramir was, in fact, not in the Tower and it was all in vain. Chances were, however, that he was; he seemed to delight in tormenting his father by hiding in odd places.  
  
So Denethor was not surprised when he heard noise coming from the inner room at the top. He was surprised when he heard the type of noise emanating from it: rumbling and rolling? Denethor's heart skipped a beat as he heard a loud crash and the sound of many things falling over, and he opened the doors calling out: "Faramir, are you all right?"  
  
Faramir turned around from where he was standing and said, "Yes."  
  
"You did not fall?" asked Denethor, and then he looked past his son into the room. "Dear Valar!" he said breathlessly.  
  
"Oh, Ada, you must try this game!" said Faramir energetically. "Prince Theodred taught me when he was here: it is called bowls, and you line up ten tall towers in a triangle and try to knock them all down with a ball like the ones that we fire from trebuchets. I couldn't find a set in Minas Tirith, though, so I made one of my own."  
  
"With the palantir?" screeched Denethor, suddenly connecting Faramir, the upper room of the White Tower, and the round black ball he was holding. "You have not! Give it to me!"  
  
"Well, there was no other heavy ball," said Faramir, backing up and trying to explain.  
  
"What did you use as the towers?" asked Denethor, pausing suspiciously.  
  
Faramir gulped, obviously realizing for the first time that he had not thought things through, and Denethor followed his son's gaze to the wall. He realized then what the crashing sound had been. "My statues! They are broken!"  
  
"I didn't think they would break," mumbled Faramir, head bowed as he tried to inconspicuously put the palantir back on its stand.  
  
Denethor looked about to explode at that, but managed to calm down to say: "You played bowls with the palantir—and the rare statues of the ancient kings of Numenor?"  
  
"Well—it was a lot of fun!" said Faramir, perking up.  
  
"Go down and take your nap like I told you," said Denethor dangerously, and Faramir ran as fast as his legs could carry him.  
  
As for Denethor, he went down the stairs more slowly, but with no less a purpose: he intended to give orders to the servants that anything valuable would be put in glass cases that were locked. Knowing Faramir, he would likely find a key, but no one could say that Denethor had not tried. _Why, why had his father never told him that boys destructed things?_

* * *

_  
A/N: The idea for this fic came from Nari-chan. Thanks Nari!_


	17. Reason #17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it will be shown that it is all Faramir's fault. (not to be taken seriously)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea for this story came from divinexglory. Thanks for the suggestion!

"This is a big day," said Denethor to his mirror with a smile.  
  
His valet, obviously thinking the comment for him, looked up from where he was arranging his lord's greave and said: "Yes, my lord."  
  
Ah, what a triumphant feeling it was to be in armor again! It was his favorite day of the year when he announced those young men who had passed their exams in the Royal Academy, on horseback and in front of the whole City and crowds from the surrounding fiefs.  
  
Of course, getting up on his horse was always a problem with such heavy armor, but that was what squires were for. And today that would be Faramir, for though he was not advanced enough to put on a man's armor, he could certainly saddle a horse and help his lord mount.  
  
The bell rang, and Denethor strode out of the Citadel. When the doors opened, he was drowned in the bright sunlight and the cheers of hundreds of people who had been waiting for him. His heart rose, and then he looked to where his horse stood, in the ceremonial gear that only he was entitled to. Faramir stood by, clad in the simple black of a squire and looking both nervous and excited.  
  
Denethor was smiling widely and waving to his people, but managed to say without moving his lips: "Are you ready, Faramir?"  
  
"Yes, Ada," said Faramir excitedly. "I did everything by myself this time."  
  
And with another wave, Denethor turned to his horse. Faramir knelt and, weaving his fingers together, put out his hands as a step for his father. Placing one hand on the pommel of the saddle, Denethor then placed his left foot in the stirrup.  
  
With a deep breath, Denethor prepared to hoist himself in the saddle. He pushed off, and then suddenly the saddle spun around the horse's middle, and Denethor fell to the ground with a crash. The Citadel went silent. Denethor could feel his face grow hot, both with embarrassment and anger.  
  
"Faramir!" he hissed. "Help me up at once, I cannot move!"  
  
And quickly, Faramir put out his hand to help him up. But he was only twelve, and a slight boy, and one of the Tower Guards had to assist before Denethor was off the ground. Faramir looked as if he wished he could jump off the White Tower.  
  
Denethor, a statesman to the last, brushed himself off with a feigned indifference that would have fooled Mithrandir. With one last look at Faramir, while a more experienced squire tightened the saddle girth, he said out of the corner of his mouth:  
  
"You will not do anything by yourself again. You will ask for help. Understand?"  
  
Faramir nodded. Denethor mounted his horse successfully, and the cheers began again. Another national ceremony saved only by acting. Denethor felt as if his forefathers at least must be finding this all too amusing, not to mention the fates that had originally decided that Faramir would be a good child to gift to the Steward of Gondor, but he forced himself to forget all that and do his task. _Just smile and wave, Denethor. Just smile and wave._

* * *

_  
Author's Notes: The idea for this story came from divinexglory. Thanks for the suggestion!_


	18. Reason #18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it will be shown that it is all Faramir's fault. (not to be taken seriously)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, Mirwen Sunrider is to thank for the idea for this chapter. Thanks for the help, Mirwen!

_"It is easy,"_ Boromir had said. _"You just let him play and make sure he uses soap at the end."_  
  
If there had been a choice, Denethor would not have been in charge of Faramir's bath that night. But even for a Steward of Gondor, there is sometimes no choice.  
  
"Come on, in the bath now," said Denethor, and Faramir needed no persuasion. With a flying leap, he splashed into the great round tub, sending flying droplets everywhere.  
  
"No splashing!" warned Denethor, before sitting in a chair and pulling out his book. As Faramir dove and twisted around in the warm water like a true child of Dol Amroth, Denethor buried himself in the words of another, taking full advantage of this "free" time given to him by Boromir's illness...  
  
_Darkness crept into Liriel's heart, a sense of foreboding doom that no logic could shake. The trees barely rustled, and even her own footsteps sounded strange. Far off she thought she could hear thunder, yet where she was no lightning lit the sky; it was darker than the depths of Thangorodrim where Sauron once lay in wait. But though Liriel was the silver-haired violet-eyed daughter of an Elf and a Maia, valiant beyond the combined might of her shared ancestry, she could not stop the fear that threatened her senses. It was an unearthly night, and she was alone in the woods..._  
  
Denethor was transported into another world.  
  
Faramir soon noticed this, and was grateful for the illness that kept Boromir from running his bath that night. For now he was no longer Faramir, seven-year-old son of Lord Denethor. Certainly not! He was Admiral Faramir of the Numenorean armada, sailing through storms towards Middle-earth on a mission. Denethor had not let his son bring his toys into the bath, but imagination had not been forbidden. With mighty strokes he used his small hands to create massive waves headed towards the proud ships of the West…  
  
"Admiral! This storm is too great! We must turn back!"  
  
"Never!" cried the Admiral, the sound of his voice powerful even against the might of wind and waves. "The King of the Elves has begged for our aid, and we shall come to him though all the hosts of the Black Lord lie between us. I shall not turn aside like a coward and a weakling!" And the Admiral's men were abashed, and their love for their brave leader grew, and every effort was doubled as the waves grew higher and the storm more vicious.  
  
The Admiral stood on the prow of his great ship, and lifted his hand against the dark clouds. "You shall not best me!" he cried, even as a mountain of a wave loomed into sight…  
  
_Liriel froze as a ghastly wail filled the air around her. She knew that wail, for it had accompanied the appearance of her greatest foe: The Dark Walker. Up till now she had wished for his reappearance that she might confront him at last, and yet now she wondered if she had been out of her mind. And yet, there before her eyes that could see even in the dark, suddenly, there walked the black-cloaked figure. Her slender ivory hand was laid over her palpitating heart, and her eyes turned deep blue as her fear grew. But she could not give up, not now. The clouds were leaving the moon, and the Dark Walker threw back his hood. She stepped forward, casting off fear, gazing straight at that lone figure so that she might see the face of her enemy..._  
  
"Admiral, the wave!" The men on the great ship cowered in fear as the wave rose higher than their highest mast.  
  
"Never fear!" cried the Admiral. "We shall survive this!" And he braced for the impact...  
  
_With a gasp Liriel beheld what the moonlight had revealed, the face of the one who had tracked her for all these years. She had only barely escaped his clutches so many times, and yet this was his face? For her foe was neither Elf nor Man, but—_  
  
Sploosh!  
  
The great wave enveloped the brave Admiral Faramir and his ship, and, though neither knew of each other's presence, it also swallowed Liriel and the Dark Walker. Both were never seen again. For the Admiral found himself demoted faster than communication with a palantir, and as for Liriel—she, unfortunately, dissolved into nothingness with her tale, to remain forever in mystery.

* * *

_Author's Notes: Once again, Mirwen Sunrider is to thank for the idea for this chapter. Thanks for the help, Mirwen!_


	19. Reason #19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it will be shown that it is all Faramir's fault. (not to be taken seriously)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nari-chan is to thank for the inspiration here! Thanks again, Nari!

"Findy, have you got Boromir?" called Denethor over his shoulder as he walked down the hall.  
  
"Yes," came the distant answer. "But not Faramir. Are you packed yet?"  
  
"Almost!" called back Denethor. And it was true: he had only one thing to pack, but he had no desire for Finduilas to find out what it was. Women, Denethor had decided, lost all concepts of sentimentality in males when they turned three. And not only did they expect men to become fiercely "mature", as they put it, from then on, but they would frown and disapprove if it ever appeared. Denethor thought this both silly and unfair, but to keep from arguments with Finduilas, he tried to keep sentimental sorts of things out of her sight.  
  
Looking over his shoulder to make sure she was not following him, he entered their bedchamber. Not bothering to light a candle, he went directly to his pillow, expecting to find Squooshy beneath it. But alas! His childhood toy, the one sentimental object he had saved, was gone! Had she taken it from him? How had she found out? How could she have done such a thing to him!  
  
Then there was a gurgle behind him, from the rug no less, and he turned around to see what in Middle-earth could make that sound.  
  
"Oh, you," said Denethor dryly, and Faramir's chubby face tipped in his direction with surprise. And then Denethor froze.  
  
Faramir, though often a loner, could not have stayed content and alone that long without help, and Denethor saw that he had received it. One slightly tattered and plushy ear was in his mouth. His hand, equally drooly no doubt, was wrapped around a grey trunk.  
  
"Give that back!" said Denethor, snapping out of his shock and leaning down to retrieve his special friend from certain destruction by one-year-old drool.

Faramir's eyes blinked as he registered what had just happened, and then his head tipped back, his arms flailed upwards, and his mouth opened wide to emit a bereaved cry. Denethor paused in wiping Squooshy dry, and then whispered frantically, "Hush, Faramir!"  
  
"Hush indeed," came a voice from the doorway, and Denethor sighed. It was too late and he had been caught red handed, clutching a stuffed "toy" in his hands while his young son wailed.  
  
"Why have you taken my son's toy?" asked Finduilas, arms crossed and eyebrows in a V shape.  
  
"But Findy, it is not his," said Denethor pleadingly.  
  
"Of course it is his," said Finduilas bluntly. "He is the only one young enough in this house to own it." And with a swift move she snatched the stuffed mumakil from his hands and put it in Faramir's arms. Gratification shone in the little boy's eyes, and his wails stopped so that he might once again use Squooshy's ear as a teething toy. He made no fuss when his mother picked him up, and Denethor watched in dismay as they both left the room.  
  
What was he to do? Faramir would not yield his newfound plaything willingly, but Denethor could not bear to watch a childhood friend mutilated like that. There was only one thing to do: Faramir had to sleep sometime, and Denethor was very sneaky.

* * *

_Author's Notes: Nari-chan is to thank for the inspiration here! Thanks again, Nari!_


	20. Reason #20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it will be shown that it is all Faramir's fault. (not to be taken seriously)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ainu Laire inspired this chapter! Thanks a lot!

When one has been deep in a warm and comforting slumber, to have a small cold hand touch one's face is revolting as well as shocking. And in Denethor's case, it did not help that it was his youngest son's hand; the same youngest son who seemed to be out to get Denethor in every way. Oh no, Denethor was not paranoid: just cautious.  
  
"Grr oot oh rrm," mumbled Denethor, his hand coming up to remove Faramir's little one.  
  
Faramir apparently did not understand the words "Get out of the room", for he patted Denethor's cheek again. "Up, Ada!" he said cheerfully. "Morning!"  
  
"No, sleep time," murmured Denethor before stuffing his head under the pillow. "Go away."  
  
"Morning!" insisted Faramir. "Sun up!"  
  
But though Faramir said not another word, Denethor soon felt the need to pull his head from under the pillow and open his eyes. Aha! It was as he predicted. Faramir had not left and was in fact playing with the items on his nightstand.  
  
"No, Faramir," muttered Denethor. "Leave it alone and go back to bed."  
  
But Faramir seemed fascinated with Denethor's wedding ring, and was trying it on his own finger.  
  
"Put it back, Faramir," warned Denethor.  
  
"No," said Faramir firmly. "Me like. Mine."  
  
"It is _mine_ ," said Denethor, sitting up.  
  
"No, mine!" said Faramir. And when his father reached for his prize, Faramir backed out of reach and ran out the door. Denethor had not expected this, even from his unusually willful two-year-old son. Filled suddenly with fear for his precious possession, he flung off his drowsiness and, grabbing a robe, ran after his son in a sprint.  
  
Faramir had a fine head start and was also fully alert, so he managed to escape the Steward's lodgings in the Citadel before Denethor saw him. But he had not gotten far down the road before Denethor's long legs had caught up. Scooping up his disobedient son, Denethor tried to pry the ring from his grasp, ignoring the various people on the street who were watching the proceedings with surprise.  
  
"Mine!" cried Faramir, clutching the ring close to his chest.  
  
"No, mine!" said Denethor severely, wondering at the strength of those tiny fingers.  
  
"No!" cried Faramir.  
  
But it was not long before Denethor had his precious again. Putting it safely on his finger and planting a kiss on it in honor of its safe return, Denethor headed up the road again. Faramir was not pleased. Flailing and screaming "No!" at the top of his lungs, he struggled wildly in his father's arms. Teeth audibly grinding, Denethor held close onto his son and walked as regally as he could back into his lodgings. He plunked Faramir in his bed without further ado, ignoring the kicking and screaming, and got back into his own bed. If only he could get back to sleep, he could forget about all this…  
  
But Denethor found out that morning that he belonged to the class of people who cannot fall back asleep once they have been wakened. And he was quite put out.

* * *

_Author's Notes: Ainu Laire inspired this chapter! Thanks a lot!_  
  
This is the last chapter. The epilogue will be up tomorrow.   



	21. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it will be shown that it is all Faramir's fault. (not to be taken seriously)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who came with me on this wacky and probably very irreverant journey through Denethor's mind.

Faramir was back from Ithilien. Denethor ignored the urge to fidget impatiently in the Steward's chair while he waited for his son to report. Recently, he had almost gotten the feeling that Faramir had outgrown being a torment to his father. Recently, that is, meaning the past few months. Denethor could not, of course, forget the wet noodle incident. But other than that, Faramir had been remarkably good. And Denethor was hoping, desperately hoping, that he was no longer out to get his father, and had done what he should have done.  
  
In came Faramir. "Father, I am come to report."  
  
"Ah yes," said Denethor. "Did the mission succeed?"  
  
"Yes," said Faramir. "The Southrons are destroyed."  
  
Denethor sighed in happy relief. Whatever this war brought, he could at least know that at the end of it, he would have a dutiful son to delight in. "Anything unusual happen?" he asked.  
  
"Well, now that you mention it," said Faramir. "I met two halflings in Ithilien."  
  
Denethor's hand clenched the armrest. "Halflings! As in the halflings of the rhyme?"  
  
"Yes," said Faramir. "It was very strange. In fact, one of them bore Isildur's Bane."  
  
"You did, of course, bring them back to Minas Tirith, as the law states," said Denethor with a shaky laugh.  
  
"Why no," said Faramir earnestly. "I gave them food and drink and helped them on their way straight into Mordor."  
  
"Heh heh," laughed Denethor strangely, and Faramir eyed him curiously. "He he he!" laughed the Steward again. "Ha ha ha! How humorous you have become, Faramir!"  
  
But then he saw the look in Faramir's eyes, and his laugh grew stranger. "You let them walk straight into Mordor! Of course you did! Ha ha ha! Ha! Ha ha ha ha ha!"  
  
And while Faramir watched in confusion, Denethor's last sane thought was: _Dear Valar, I am going mad at last._

* * *

Years later, by a roaring fire at night, many friends of Gondor sat listening to a tale. It could have been told in several ways, and by several persons, but of those few only one was left to tell his version.  
  
"And so your father never approved of you?" asked Eowyn in disbelief as Faramir ended. No one in the gathering knew how she had managed to do it, but they had just been treated to the story of Faramir's life from his own lips, and with no tears or discomfort.  
  
"I am afraid not," said Faramir with a sad smile.  
  
Aragorn shook his head. "Your father was a strange man, I think."  
  
"But was there nothing to explain it?" asked Arwen, puzzled. "Surely your father was not always out of his mind."  
  
"I cannot think of anything I did to provoke his disapproval," said Faramir seriously. "Boromir told me that I was a very good child, and I cannot otherwise explain it."  
  
"There was very likely no reason for it. Unexplainable things happen every day," assured Eowyn, patting Faramir's arm comfortingly.  
  
"Yes, it was very likely so," agreed Aragorn.  
  
"I cannot think that Denethor was so irrational," put in Arwen, her elven mind trying to fit the evidence together in a different way. "If we heard the tale from his own lips, surely things would be made clearer."  
  
"Alas, but that is impossible," said Faramir with a sigh. " And irrationality is left as the only clear option, for we shall never know if there was another one."  
  
There was a pause while they all pondered the inexplicability of life, and then the topic turned at last.  
  
**The End**

* * *

_Author's Notes: Thank you to everyone who came with me on this wacky and probably very irreverant journey through Denethor's mind._


End file.
